Elena laughs nervously. "You're joking, right? Vampires? Seriously?"
Damon sits up in bed. "I know it sounds insane, but it's true. I've been alive for close to two centuries. Yes, I'm a vampire."
Elena waves her hand dismissively and jumps out of bed to start putting her clothes back on.
"If you didn't want to date me, you could at least be man enough to say so instead of making some cockamamie story about being a vampire!" She says as she zips up her jeans.
"Elena, that's not it at all. Let me explain." Damon tries to reason with her.
"You made me think you were interested in the two of us and now you come up with that pathetic excuse?"
Damon shakes his head. "It's not like that, Elena."
She sits down to slip on her shoes. "I don't want to hear it," Elena raises her palm to silence him.
She storms out of his house, leaving Damon standing there, regret etched on his face.
The fluorescent lights flicker overhead as Elena storms through the glass doors of the Tribune. She's carrying a steaming cup of coffee and is still fuming about Damon.
"Why does this place feel like a never-ending maze?" she mumbles under her breath as she passes the receptionist who is busy chatting on the phone.
Elena marches toward the elevators, her heels clicking on the marble floor. The elevator doors open, revealing a crowded space. She squeezes in, her frustration mounting.
When the elevator dings, Elena steps out onto her floor. She storms past her colleagues, who glance at her with raised eyebrows.
"Rough morning?" Honoria Fell comments.
"You have no idea," Elena snaps. Reaching her cubicle, she throws her bag and the desk drawer and slams her coffee down.
Just as she's about to sit down an "Elena," comes from behind her. She rolls her eyes as she looks up at Ric.
"Coming, Mother," she mocks and rises to go into his office.
As she passes Honoria, the old woman snickers smugly, "Nana, nana, boo, boo!"
"Grow up," Elena mumbles and enters Ric's office, closing the door behind her.
"I warned you about bugging the police department, didn't I? Didn't I?"
"Yeah, so what?!" Elena defends herself.
"So, Jordan's office just called Shane and he read me the riot act, so, thanks to you, I'm in the hot seat...again!"
"Why?"
"Why?!" Ric fumes. Are you for real? You barge into Jordan's office, tell him how to run his case, tell him he's suppressing information, and you're asking why?!"
"He is suppressing news that is valuable to the public. The killer is there, Ric. He is hiding in the underground."
"Why don't they get him out of there?!" Ric contends.
"He is hidden away someplace nobody knows!" Elena counters.
"How the heck can they get at him, then?!"
Elena throws her arms up in frustration. "I don't know, Ric!"
"If I get one more dressing down by Shane, you're off the case! Now GET OUT!" Ric yells as he opens the office door and extends his arm for her to leave.
"You're insufferable," Elena fumes as she walks out to a loud slam of his door.
Having received a call from Joshua Parker, Elena ducks into the stairwell to go downstairs to the archives. The room is dimly lit, with rows of dusty shelves stretching into the distance. The air smells of old paper and forgotten stories.
Elena stands at the entrance, peering into the archives. She likes being there. It's quiet and Ric's not around to read her the riot act whenever she enters his office. She steps forward, her footsteps echoing through the cavernous space. The shelves are stacked with yellowed newspapers, bound volumes, and ancient microfilm reels. Elena runs her fingers along the spines, feeling the weight of decades.
"There you are, Miss Gilbert," Joshua appears with a smile. "Come see what I found," he says and urges her over to his desk.
Elena follows, her curiosity piquing.
"Just one small item, Miss Gilbert." He points to an article.
"Mark Twain?" Elena looks at Joshua disbelievingly.
"Fifth paragraph down."
Elena scans the page, and she begins to read aloud. "Mr. Twain noted with typical dryness of tone "that he had a most intriguing conversation with a local physician who claimed that physical immortality... "
"Oh, this is very good, Mr. Parker." Elena smiles at him and continues.
"... that physical immortality was not only possible, "but probable, indeed, practical. Mr. Twain remarked that the physician's name was Dr. George Lockwood."
"Um...you wouldn't have anything on this George Lockwood, would you?" Elena asks.
"Just one small item, Dr. George Lockwood was a member of the original staff of the Silverlake Hospital when it opened in 1880." Joshua points to the article. "Here's the original story and photograph."
"The Civil War?" As she stares at the photo, Elena's lips part in an unspoken wow.
"He was a surgeon in General Lee's Army of Northern Virginia- The Confederate Army."
Elena's brows lift, her mind creating a bridge between the mundane and the unfathomable. "Do you know whether the hospital is still standing?"
"Oh, I don't believe so, Miss Gilbert...I think there's a law firm there now..."
Elena takes a fast trip to the address, hoping against hope the files from Silverlake Hospital were not destroyed.
She asked Mr. Parker to keep checking the paper's records to find out what else he could about Dr. George Lockwood.
Upon entering the building, Elena pauses just inside the lobby door. On the wall in front of her is a portrait of Dr. George Lockwood, the doctor-saint of the waterfront, and founder of the Lockwood Free Clinic which became Silverlake Hospital.
After several minutes of staring, she walks to the reception desk.
"Can I help you, mam?"
"I was informed that his building was a hospital at one time, in the late 1800s. Would any of those records still be available?" Elena asks and bites on her lower lip.
"I don't know about the history of this building but I rather doubt the records still exist."
"Is there someone who may know?" Elena persists.
"Give me a minute," the woman holds up her finger and calls someone.
A moment later a man steps out and approaches Elena.
"I'm Sabine Laurent." She shakes Elena's hand. "I understand you're looking for information on the old hospital."
"Yes, I was wondering if any records about him..." Elena points to George Lockwood's portrait, "Still exist."
"No. There was a fire here in the 1930s. It destroyed all of those things, but as you can see, the structure survived. We're sitting on the original foundation. The building was sold on the condition that his portrait remain in a place of honor so to say." Sabine informs Elena.
Elena sighs in disappointment. "Well, thank you for your help."
Immediately upon returning, Elena marches into Ric's office and closes the door behind her, glaring at Honoria.
"What now?" he asks, squeezing the bridge of his nose.
"I know who the killer is," She tells him matter-of-factly.
"And who might that be?" Ric rolls his eyes.
"His name is Dr. George Lockwood, Confederate Army surgeon and founder of Silverlake Hospital."
"Confederate Army! That's the best you can come up with?" Ric deadpans.
Although her anger is building, Elena claws it back. She looks up when Mr. Parker pokes his head in the door.
"Mr. Parker, come in, come in! I've been waiting for you, come on! Did you find anything else?"
"Who is this man?" Ric demands to know.
"Don't you know him? He works for the paper," Elena retorts.
"Down in the archives and research, sir, for 20 years," Joshua informs him.
"Sit down, Mr. Parker, tell us what you got," Elena steps aside to let him take a seat.
"Mr. George Lockwood lived in Richmond, Virginia until 1878, when he moved to Seattle. Several months before he left Richmond, six women were strangled over 21 days precisely."
"Very good, Mr. Parker," Elena smirks at Ric smugly as she takes the paper from Joshua and continues, "Their larynxes were crushed, and their necks were broken. Two had small wounds on the base of their skull. 1877, I might add, is exactly 21 years before the first group of Seattle killings, Ric."
Ric tents his fingers as he stares at Elena.
"Following a fire in 1898 in which the wife, stepson, and daughter died of smoke inhalation, Dr. George Lockwood disappeared. 1898, as we know, just happens to be the year in which the first group of six killings occurred here in Seattle."
"Are there any photos?" Ric asks as he refills his coffee cup.
Elena pulls one out. "This photograph was taken during the Civil War when Dr. George Lockwood was a surgeon with the Confederate Army. Look at the uniform," She says, handing it to Ric. "And this photograph of Dr. George Lockwood was taken in 1919. The man appears to be in his 40s. Can you explain, Ric, how a man who is almost 90 can look like a man in his 40s?"
"What am I supposed to do now, congratulate you?" Ric mocks, his face red with irritation.
"Talk to Chief Jordan. He should get some policewomen in the area to lure him out of his hiding place."
"You know what. I'm tired of this nonsense. Elena, one more outburst like this, and I'll have you covering the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival in Mt. Vernon."
Elena's nostrils flare in anger. "When the next woman dies, her blood will be on your hands," she snaps and storms out of his office for the second time today.
The room is dimly lit, the soft glow of a table lamp casts elongated shadows on the walls. Outside, the evening sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving behind a twilight canvas. Elena sits by the window, cradling a crystal wine glass. The liquid inside swirls, capturing the fading light.
She has endured a day that feels like a relentless storm. The encounters with Ric have been a battleground. Her nerves are frayed and her patience is wearing thin.
As she sips, the velvety liquid slides down her throat, momentarily easing the tension. The oak notes dance on her tongue, a fleeting distraction from the day's chaos. The room smells of aged wood, leather-bound books, and memories she dares not revisit.
Just as Elena settles into the rhythm of her thoughts, a sharp knock echoes through her small house. She frowns, setting the wine glass down on the coffee table. She pads across the hardwood floor, her footsteps muffled by the thick rug. She hesitates, her hand hovering over the brass doorknob. The wine has blurred the edges of her frustration, but curiosity tugs at her.
With a twist, she opens the door.
And there, framed by the dimly lit hallway, stands Damon. His eyes are the color of storm clouds, and his face bears a gritty determination.
"Apologies for the intrusion, Elena, but I need to talk to you. Can I come in?"
Elena's annoyance flickers but she steps aside, allowing Damon to enter.
Thank you, everyone. Love to all.
Chapter title: Myth by Beach House.
Have a fabulous weekend.